


Swear to Shake it Up

by enjolrarses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 30 Day Cheesy Tropes Challenge, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:30:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2268081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrarses/pseuds/enjolrarses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing with soulmarks is that they’re intrinsically intertwined with your fate. Every part of them links back to you in some way, past, present and future. Your life is mapped out on that expanse of skin, and every soulmark means something different.</p>
<p>To have one on your hand, though, is rare. It’s a sign of devotion, everlasting love. </p>
<p>In short, it meant that Dean had a soulmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swear to Shake it Up

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: matching soulmate markings

For such a small tattoo, it was intricately detailed.

 

Every shadow, every different strand and feature was perfectly etched onto the sensitive skin of his palm. If it weren’t for the dark blue ink that wove it across his skin, he would have thought them real; two feathers, soft and almost tangible, fragile and vulnerable. Not really a tattoo; tattoos were a choice you made, unless you were off your face at one in the morning and then they were less of a choice and more of an irreversible mistake. No, this was a soulmark. _His_ soulmark, his first one.

 

He hated it immediately.

 

HIs mother would love it, sure. She was well into all that hippie stuff, peace and love and everything is beautiful. She’d say that it showed his sweet and kind nature, that he was her perfect little boy and that she knew he would grow up to be a wonderful man. His brother would probably ask if he needed tampons or something, for those new lady parts of his, but he could deal with Sammy.

 

What he couldn’t deal with, though, would be the _disappointment_ in his father’s eyes, the way he’d tower down over him. “Son,” he’d say, “what’s this?”

 

And Dean would reply something along the lines of, “My soulmark- sir.” He’d cower, just like he wasn’t supposed to, and he’d curl into himself, just like his father hated.

 

And then- and _only_ then, when Dean had claimed it as his soul mark- John would do that thing where he looked down on Dean, eyebrow raised, and he would say, “ _My_ first soulmark was the Mark of Michael, as was my father’s, and his father’s before that,” and generally make Dean feel inferior, because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t meet his father’s expectations. And then Dean-

 

Well. Dean had absolutely no idea what he’d do then.

 

Soulmarks were supposed to be this big _thing_ , this coming-of-age crap where everybody hung rainbows and spewed flowers and got drunk and rejoiced the soulmarkee becoming a man (or a woman), which was all well and good, unless you’d gotten a soulmark like _Dean’s_ , which was so steeped in estrogen that he might as well start writing poetry and drawing hearts all over his workbooks like some middle-school nobody. _Feathers_. Of all the things, his soul was best represented with _feathers._

 

And they were on his _hand_.

 

~o~

 

The thing with soulmarks is that they’re intrinsically intertwined with your fate. Every part of them links back to you in some way, past, present a future. Your life is mapped out on that expanse of skin, and every soulmark means something different.

 

John had his Mark of Michael, over his heart; the mark of a true warrior, brave and loyal to the cause, willing to sacrifice anything- _anyone_ \- for the greater good. It’d been handed down the Winchester line for generations, always the first soulmark to manifest, and to be honest John put too much stock in it. The heart is where a person’s true Mark lies, the one manifestation of their calling in life. John worked for the FBI. He said he helped people, but some days, when John got really angry, Dean wasn’t so sure.

 

Most other marks can go anywhere on the body. Mary had one curling over her shoulder, flowers, pretty, soft petals that snaked down and around her arm too. Uncle Bobby had a bloodstain on his side, like a cut that rent him from the top of his hip to the bottom of his ribs. Uncle Bobby once told Dean and Sam that it represented a deep sorrow from his past, and neither boy ever asked him what. Aunt Karen didn’t know either, which meant that _no one_ other than Bobby knew.

 

To have one on your hand, though, is rare. It’s a sign of devotion, everlasting love.

 

In short, it means that Dean had a _soulmate_.

 

~o~

 

Dean stared dully at his Lucky Charms, willing the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He was clenching his hand so hard that he was starting to lose blood flow, his fingers turning purple; Sam kept throwing him funny looks over his Wheaties, like he _knew_ something was wrong, but couldn’t figure out exactly _what._

 

“You alright, bitch?” he asked, but the words fell flat without his usual teasing tone.

 

"I'm fine, jerk," said Sam, narrowing his eyes in a way that heralded a conversation about Dean's feelings, which was just about the worst thing he could think of at that particular moment. "Are you?"

 

Sliding his eyes sideways, he replied, "sure." His chest clenched slightly with the lie, hating himself immediately, but he steeled himself with the assurance that it was _his_ mark, that he could hide it from whoever he wanted, _thank-you-very-much_.

 

Sam, although unconvinced, left it alone, picking up his dish and setting it in the gleaming sink. His floppy brown hair swished around his ears, and the sleeves of his oversized sweatshirt dangled dangerously near the water that was already in the sink from the dishes Mary had been doing before she’d had to start getting ready for work. “If you say so,” he said, shrugging, his mind probably going somewhere else. Sam was like that- if it wasn’t immediately important, he wouldn’t dwell on it. He was a good kid, but he was always focusing on the future, what he _had_ do as opposed to what he _was_ doing. If he thought it was important, though, he was like a dog with a bone.

 

The Lucky Charms weren’t helping him any, and he sighed as he got up to scrape them in the bin. He wasn’t hungry, worry had sucked out most of his appetite. He set the bowl into the sink and grabbed the dish brush, and grabbed the glasses from last night to start off. There weren’t that many- his mom had already done most of them- and he finished them quickly, picking up the lunch money that they had been left by their mother.

 

He smiled, and surreptitiously slipped an extra dollar into Sammy’s- it wasn’t like he was hungry anyway, and his mom wouldn’t notice, she was busy working to make sure they had enough money for these things. There was a yellow post-it next to the money, folded in half to make it stand up on the counter, covered in Mary’s curvy scrawl; he picked it up, grimacing as he read it.

 

“Sammy!” he yelled up the stairs, where his brother had disappeared to, presumably to get his stuff together for school. “Mom says to get your shit packed, we’re goin’ to Dad’s tonight!”

 

Sam poked his head out from behind the doorframe. “C’mon, you’re kidding me.”

 

“No joke, squirt. Dad’s tonight, and you’ll have to be quick packing because I’m taking you to school in about five minutes.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Sam made a sound of deep and utter disgust, turning like a ballerina on his foot- although Dean couldn’t find it in himself to mock him for it, for once- and stomped back up, presumably to throw some clothes into a bag for the night. Dean had his done; he always had a bag by his door now, in anticipation for this event. Sam was under the impression that if he ignored it, it would go away. Dean knew better.

 

Finished in the kitchen, Dean slung his bag over his shoulder and waited for the clatter of Sam’s oversized feet to come down the hallway. It had been a while since they had last gone to visit their father, despite the fact that he lived just across town, and the things Sam needed would be spread to the far corners of his room now. Dean just hoped that he wouldn’t be _catastrophically_ late, as last time this had happened both Dean and Sam had missed half of their first class that day.

 

Luck was on his side, though; for once, Sam was quick about it.

 

“You okay, squirt?” Dean raised his eyebrow as Sam almost ran past him on his way to the car.

 

“Yeah,” said Sam breathlessly. “I just- well-” he turned a bright red colour, and Dean snickered before getting into the shitty Honda that was really their mother’s, but she biked to work instead ( _to get fit_ , she said; _to let you boys use it_ , said her expression). John had said that when Dean got his first soulmark, he’d give Dean his 1967 Chevy Impala. Dean seriously doubted that would happen now.

 

He wound his left hand tightly around the steering wheel before Sam could see his palm- _he’s looking, he knows_ , whispered his traitorous mind, even if Dean knew better- and with the other turned down his music to a level that wouldn’t hurt anyone’s eardrums.

 

He realised his mistake as soon as Sam looked at him strangely.

 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked again suspiciously, and Dean cursed whoever thought it was a good idea to give the kid genius-level intelligence.

 

“I’m _fine_ , Sammy,” he said, pressing down on the accelerator maybe harder than was necessary.

 

It was going to be a long day.

 

~o~

 

When he got into homeroom, Cas looked up from where he was hunched over his English book. He was bundled up, today, although that wasn’t altogether weird- Cas generally wore a lot of layers. Dean didn’t know if his family was from the freaking tropics or whatever, but Cas said that while Lawrence summers were nice, the winters were like the ninth circle of hell. As it was just after the Christmas holidays, Cas was freezing his ass off, while Dean (a Kansas native) was fine with his dad’s leather jacket over a long sleeved shirt that was maybe a bit thicker than what he would normally wear.

 

Smiling at him, Dean chucked his bag onto the next desk and collapsed into his own chair. “Hey,” he said, surreptitiously sliding his hands into his jacket sleeves like he was cold. “What’s up?”

 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas replied. “I’m just trying to finish the analysis for English, it’s… aggravating, to say the least.”

 

Dean laughed. “You too, huh? Yeah, I don’t think anyone gets this one.” He held out his hand. “C’mon, I’ll take a look at it. See if I got anything you didn’t.” As a rule, both Dean and Cas were better at math and science- Dean wanted to become an automotive engineer, maybe work in design for some of the big companies, and Cas wanted to be a neurosurgeon. English was collectively their worst subject, but with the both of them they generally scraped by. Unfortunately, at their school it was mandatory until senior year.

 

Cas handed it over with a wry smile. “I’m afraid I didn’t get very far.”

 

“No, you’re right, you didn’t.” Dean agreed. It was very short, the original text highlighted where there were obvious imagery, but otherwise bare. Dean’s own showed that he hadn’t gotten much past that, but he could at least pick out irony and hyperbole, neither of which Cas had found, and there was a good part of it which was rhetorical, which Dean had never expected Cas to get, given that he didn’t recognise it spoken.

 

Dean helped Cas as much as he could, but soon he had to admit defeat. “Ask Charlie, she’s good at this shit.”

 

“You’re not _bad_ at it, Dean,” said Cas, laying his hand on Dean’s. “You’re just…”

 

“As good as _you_ ,” Dean finished with a grin. “Which is to say, not at all.”

 

Cas ducked his head. “Yeah, exactly.” He was smiling, not the full grin that Dean loved to put on his face, but a shy lifting of the lips. It was good too, Dean reflected. There wasn’t much about Cas that Dean didn't like.

 

Unconsciously, Dean squeezed his hand into a fist again, trying to hide the mark. It wasn’t that he thought that Cas would react like his father would, but he knew Cas would be all over that shit, and it felt sort of private. Just for his future soul mate- whoever that was.

 

( _If it’s so private,_ his brain said, _then why would it be on your hand?_ )

 

( _Shut up,_ Dean said back.)

 

Needless to say, that period went a lot slower than Dean would have liked. And he hadn’t even started classes yet.

 

~o~

 

“You keep doing that with your hand,” said Cas after lunch. “Is it hurt?”

 

“No!” said Dean quickly. A bit too quickly, if Cas’s raised eyebrow was any indication. Dean clenched his hand even harder, the muscles in his arm pulling taut, and then let out a sigh. Cas still hadn’t looked away, he hadn’t blinked, he hadn’t done _anything_ , and Dean was honestly a little worried because that kind of thing wasn’t human.

 

“You’re doing it again,” said Dean.

 

“So are you,” replied Cas evenly. “Don’t give me that look, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Bottling it up isn’t going to help, you know.”

 

“Bottling what up?” asked Dean stubbornly, giving Cas a (forced) grin.

 

“If I knew that, you wouldn’t be bottling it up. What’s wrong with your hand, Dean?” Cas crossed his arms in front of his chest and levelled Dean with a glare that had so much fire it could have burned buildings. Dean shifted uncomfortably.

 

“It’s nothing- it’s a nervous thing,” he said, clenching it again.

 

Sighing, Cas slumped back down in his chair. He always gave up too quickly, unlike Sammy who was like a dog with a bone when something really grabbed his attention. “I know you’re lying,” he said after a pause. “You know I’m here if you want to talk, right?”

 

“No chick flick moments,” replied Dean.

 

~o~

 

That night, at their father’s, it was quiet. John was passed out in front of the TV, the beer that had been in his hand slowly dripping its contents onto the floor. Sam had gone to bed, but he’d taken John’s laptop with him and Dean suspected he was going to be up late talking to someone. Dean was methodically going through the dishes that hadn’t been done, drying them and putting them away.

 

The carving knife they’d used was kind of unwieldy, and while he generally had a good grip on things, this time he accidently let it slip through his fingers. It clattered to the floor with a _clang_ , leaving Dean to stare numbly at the line of red leaking slowly across his soulmark. It didn’t hurt that much, but it was bleeding pretty hard.

 

Trying not to make much noise, he went into the bathroom and got out the band-aids, stopping short when he saw the cloth bandages and padding.

 

He shook his head to dislodge the thought. It wouldn’t work.

 

( _But maybe it would_ )

 

(He was almost ready to strangle his conscience, if it kept doing these things to him).

 

Instead of using the band-aids, he carefully cleaned the cut and laid the padding on it, and then wrapped the cloth bandage around it and secured it. It was maybe a bit too tight, but he felt a rush of relief just from the knowledge that the mark on it was invisible, that no one else would know. The stark white of the bandage felt like a new canvas. If Dean was prone to using words like _cathartic_ , he would have.

 

Smiling, he trudged back downstairs to finish up the dishes, and to pry the drink from his father’s hand when it became apparent he wasn’t waking up. He cleaned the beer on the floor, too- that would become another problem for him if left there too long. Some days, things were John’s fault. Most days, they were Dean’s.

 

He checked Sammy’s room to make sure the brat was asleep, grinning when he saw the kid hadn’t even made it through his skype call before he’d crashed. He shut off the computer and climbed into his own bed, not bothering to get changed. He did take off his boots, though. His mother would be horrified if he didn’t, although she would never know and his dad would never care.

 

He slept dreamlessly.

 

~o~

 

His dad had nothing to say about the bandage in the morning, but Sammy sure did.

 

“So you just sprained it? Just like that? While doing dishes?”

 

“What, d’you think I’m wearing this for fun?” _Dear Lord, forgive me for lying to my brother,_ he chanted in his head, thinking of his mother. Mary Campbell didn’t stand for lies, even lies by omission. He wasn’t sure about God, but the wrath of the Campbell women was alive and well.

 

“I suppose not…” Sam said voice laced with doubt. “D’you think you should go to the doctor? Maybe it’s broken.”

 

“It hurts, but not that much. Besides, you know we don’t have the money for that.” It was true, too. They didn’t have the money for much of anything these days. If he had broken his wrist it would cost more money than he could afford to spend to fix it.

 

“You sure?” Sam was suspicious still, but Dean couldn’t care less.

 

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

 

“Alright. Jerk.”

 

“Bitch.”

 

Dean cleared away their dishes as John stomped around the house gathering his gear. The clattering of the dishes sounded loud to his ears, even though logically he knew that their father’s angry muttering would drown it out. He’d be gone soon, but he’d want Dean and Sam to be out of the house at the same time so they’d end up at school an hour early. John believed in being prompt, but Dean believed there was such thing as too prompt and John had managed to hit it right on the head.

 

Nevertheless, they loaded into the car at 7 o'clock and, after waiting for John to pull out of the driveway, promptly spent a good half hour in there doing nothing, since they didn’t have house keys and there was no way Dean wanted to be at school.

 

~o~

 

It was a week before Cas questioned the bandage.

 

“Are you sure it’s sprained?” he asked suspiciously.

 

“Uh, yeah. Why?”

 

“Because it doesn’t seem to be bothering you at all. You’re not hindered in any way by it. Dean, if it was sprained you would in no way have the dexterity you’re exhibiting.”

 

Dean resisted the urge to hide his hand behind his back, but it was a close call. “Leave it, alright, Cas?”

 

His best friend looked perplexed, and Dean was struck with the urge to kiss the look right off his face, which was new. “Look, I have to go. Study. In the library.”

 

“You never go to the library.”

 

“There’s a first time for everything,” Dean said, hastily gathering his books up and marching out of the room, grimacing to himself. That wasn’t the best way to deal with the situation, but what was the best way to deal with the fact that you had been so wrapped up in yourself not to notice that you wanted to kiss your best friend? The same best friend who knew very well what a sprained wrist looked like, knew you didn’t have one, and was concerned enough to follow it up?

 

He couldn’t say that he’d never considered it before, but never like this. He’d never gotten past wanted to kiss him, but now he wanted to touch, to taste all that was Cas. He’d never felt like he was going to burst if he couldn’t. And Dean had never been a good actor. He could manipulate people to hell, but to outright lie like that? It was harder than he’d thought.

 

He set his books down on the floor and slid down the wall, wishing he had Cas to comfort him.

 

How ironic was it that the only person who could make him feel better was the same one who made him feel like this?

 

~o~

 

Now that he knew he had a crush, it was like the floodgates had opened. He couldn’t even _look_ at Cas without blushing anymore.

 

~o~

 

The doorbell rang, insistent.

 

“Hang on, I’m coming,” Dean yelled, putting down his pen and unfolding himself from their small kitchen table. Sammy was at soccer practise, their mother at work- it would only take a second to disabuse whoever was there. He marched over to the door and yanked it open, faltering when he saw Cas standing there, looking for all the world like a lost kitten.

 

“Hey,” he started to say, but it turned into a yelp when Cas grabbed his hand and started to unwrap the bandage methodically, slowly but firmly. Dean tried futilely to yank his hand away, but Cas was too strong and by the time he managed it, it was only because Cas had let go, and was staring at the tattoo.

 

“There you go,” said Dean bitterly. “You got me.”

 

“I knew it,” breathed Cas, looking so happy he was almost vibrating.

 

“You- _what_?”

 

“I knew it,” repeated Cas, but it didn’t seem like it was for Dean’s benefit. He grabbed Dean’s hand and held it up, putting his own right next to it.

 

There was a tattoo on Cas’s palm, too. And it was a perfect match.

 

“I _knew_ it!” said Cas a third time, and threw himself into Dean’s arms, covering Dean’s mouth with his own.

 

~o~

 

Later, when they were all kissed out- even Dean had limits to making out, and Cas wasn’t one to jump in bed on the first date- Dean told him the whole story, and Cas listened to everything that Dean had said, thought, and done. And then Cas enveloped Dean in his arms and said, somewhat sleepily, “you don’t have to tell them until you’re ready to.”

  
And Dean smiled at him and replied, “with you beside me, it doesn’t seem so scary.”

**Author's Note:**

> ayyyy this is my longest fic yet for this pairing. by that i mean word count and how long its taken me to write this. ive had this for a year- i generally work on it during class when im suppossed to be doing other stuff- but it fit the prompt so beautifully that i had to use it.
> 
> i still have one left tonight to catch up but that might not happen until tomorrow???? ive been away and do need to catch up, but im so freaking tired rn u have no idea. 
> 
> title from panic! at the disco's The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage.


End file.
